Nothing So Resembles A Daub As A

For Christ's Sake, Were The Mountains Blue, Then Chuck On Some Blue And Don't Go Telling Me That It Was A Blue A Bit Like This Or Like That, It Was Blue Wasn't It? Good - Make Them Blue And That's Enough!

Thanks To Our Cinctures And Corsets We Have Succeeded In Making An Artificial Being Out Of Woman. She Is An Anomaly, And Nature Herself, Obedient To The Laws Of Heredity, Aids Us In Complicating And Enervating Her. We Carefully Keep Her In A State Of Nervous Weakness And Muscular Inferiority, And In Guarding Her From Fatigue, We Take Away From Her Possibilities Of Development. Thus Modeled On A Bizarre Ideal Of Slenderness To Which, Strangely Enough, We Continue To Adhere, Our Women Have Nothing In Common With Us, And This, Perhaps, May Not Be Without Grave Moral And Social Disadvantages.

Poor Artist! You Gave Away Part Of Your Soul When You Painted The Picture Which You Are Now Trying To Dispose Of.

I'd Like To Write The Way I Do My Paintings, That Is, As Fantasy Takes Me, As The Moon Dictates.

You May Dream Freely When You Listen To Music As Well As When You Look At Painting. When You Read A Book You Are The Slave Of The Author's Mind.